Page 3 of It Happened In Paris

I rounded a corner and caught sight of Adrien and Viv in a secluded spot, locked in a heated argument. My mind a fog, I rubbed my palms into my eyes in disbelief, hoping the scene I came upon wasn’t real. Adrien had her pinned against the wall, one hand clutching her throat while the other hovered menacingly in the air, ready to strike.

“You’ll let her go if you value your life,” I growled, intercepting his hand before it could hit her.

His face twisted in anger as he snapped, “Mind your own business.”

“This is my business. I won’t stand by and watch this. Consider our deal over,” I retorted, and shoved him hard enough to make him release her.

“Fuck you, Adrien. We’re done. Over. Do you understand?” Viv cried out, holding her throat, her departure punctuated by Adrien slewing a string of French curses.

I left him behind and rushed after her, my legs heavy. About a block away, I finally reached her as she stopped for breath and wiped away tears.

“Are you okay? He had no right to treat you like that,” I said, inhaling the cool night air deeply in a bid to clear my muddled head.

She faced me, voice trembling. “I—I can’t believe it. He was really going to hit me?”

“You deserve so much better,” I murmured softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder in comfort as she broke down crying.

A poundingin my head jolted me awake from a bizarre dream. Or was it real?

The fragments of memories were so vivid. I recalled spending the night with a beautiful woman—strolling along the Seine, marveling at the Eiffel Tower… even making love in my bed. When I reached over, the recently occupied space and duvet still held some warmth.

It took every bit of strength to open my eyes, and a wave of relief washed over me. I was in my suite at the Four Seasons Hotel George V. I scanned the room for any sign of her. The cream and blue hues of old-world French elegance contrasted with one note of black—the sight of a woman in a black dress, tiptoeing toward the door in stilettos clicking softly.

“Hey… uh, wait,” I croaked, my voice rasping as I struggled to sit up, every muscle protesting.

She hesitated, hand on the doorknob, then turned back to me with a shy walk-of-shame type of smile. “Thank you, Richard, for saving me last night. I’ll never forget you.”

And with that, she was gone. I tumbled out of bed, trying to follow her. What was happening to me?

The Macallan, the bartender, Adrien—it all came crashing back. I crawled along the floor, fumbling for my pants and my phone, determined to call my family doctor to arrange for my blood to be tested. Someone had to have drugged me last night.

I instantly regretted coming to Paris for this deal. It was a humbling experience, perhaps exactly what my swollen ego needed. Yet the mysterious woman—what was her name again?

What did it matter? I massaged my forehead to piece together every detail of last night and make sense of it, but only one image remained imprinted: her piercing blue eyes, which I would never forget.

2

SAVE THE CAKE

VIVIAN KINGSTON-BARDEAUX

Present Day

Just when Ithought things were looking up, things got worse. “Stupid van,” I shouted and kicked the tire with my sneaker, splattering it with slushy snow and mud from the puddle I stood in. Whatever was wrong with the vehicle, the engine wouldn’t turn over. I peered in through the back window where I had neat stacks of pink and turquoise Cupcake Cottage boxes secured, containing the cake. Not just any cake, but the Buchanan wedding cake.

If I didn’t arrive at the Plaza Hotel in the city and get this multi-tiered champagne cake with raspberry filling and vanilla bean buttercream frosting set up and ready to become the main centerpiece of Rex and Chelsea’s wedding, I’d never hear the end of it from Miriam Buchanan, the matriarch of the family. And I wouldn’t receive the final payment for it, which right now I needed considering my car broke down on the way to the city.

I had no business taking on the cake contract for a big city wedding in the first place. But Chelsea was my cousin, and the closest thing I had to a sister. I’d do anything for her so whenshe begged me to bake the cake for her wedding, I promised to give her the grandest one possible.

After all, it wasn’t every day that a small town girl from Holly Creek married a billionaire. Chelsea and Rex couldn’t be more perfect for each other.

Good for them, but it’d take a lot to get me to the altar again, let alone to date. Not only did I possess a mountain of trust issues, but as a divorced single mother who owned her own business, I didn’t have time for a man in my life.

I waited impatiently beside the van. Immediately when it broke down I had called Agnes, the wedding planner, and told her the news, which I hated to do, hoping word wouldn’t get to Chelsea. The last thing a bride wanted to hear on their wedding day was all their plans going awry. I feared upsetting her. Not that she was a bridezilla—more like Rex’s mother Miriam was the Momzilla of all mother-in-laws.

Agnes texted not long after that and said Rex would be sending his brother to pick up both me and the cakes. With any luck, I’d have the table set up by the time the reception started, and no one would know I was two hours late and at risk of not arriving at all.

Thunder rumbled north of the roadside gas station outside of Middletown, sending me back into the van. A million prayers later, my nerves frayed and at their very end, a carfinallypulled up behind me.

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